


The Bones of Love

by Tiofrean



Series: When hearts sing (Songfics) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Multi, Songfic, Unhappy marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks about his marriage with Mary. He decides that he cannot go on like this. He needs Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bones of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnlock14](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlock14/gifts).



> Okay. The song is “Bones of Love” by Anita Lipnicka and John Porter. You can find it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IfmrAqV0n5Q
> 
> What's more? Oh, established relationship... But is it really stable? Well, let's say that John tries to cope. It doesn't mean that he will, though. Or maybe? It depends on the point of view...
> 
> Dedicated to johnlock14 (along with the sequel that is currently being written, which will be explicit, I swear <3 )

They were sitting on a warm beach, the sand soft under their palms. John insisted that they should go for a little holiday, Mary agreed.  
  
_She’s sipping a cappuccino_

_Like a cat sipping out of a bowl..._

  
Mary was lovely, caring and cheerful... but it was not what John wanted. He needed mystery, adrenaline... he needed the smell of gunpowder, the taste of blood and the sound of fire. He needed Sherlock.

He smiled and picked up his cup of coffee.  
  
  
While on Baker Street, he had always been drinking white coffee. Now, well... now he needed to remind himself of Sherlock. Of his harsh character, of his quirks, sulks... of his charming smile over a cup of coffee so similar to the one John was drinking now.  
  
The doctor let his mind wander, browsing through the images in his mind... Sherlock in their living room, sitting on the green, leather sofa, clad in his impeccable black suit and rusty-colored shirt underneath. John walked up to him that day, leaned close and kissed the detective. It was quick, it was demanding. All tongue and teeth, loud moans and obscene slopping sounds. John shifted and climbed on the detective's lap, both hands fisting in the orange-red shirt...

The smaller man opened the shirt button by button, kissing and sucking the revealed skin with enthusiasm of a starving man. Sherlock moaned and bucked underneath him, palms gripping the doctor's waist.  
“John... please...” he whispered in-between kisses, trying to divest John of his clothes, hands shaky but determined. The doctor just moaned at this and pressed tighter, closer, his groin rubbing deliciously against the younger man.  
  
John jolted back to the present when a gentle hand had been placed on his, a small amount of sand separating them in a few places. Mary squeezed his fingers, looking at him with worry.  
“What's wrong?” She asked, her big, brown eyes questioning. John opened his mouth to answer, but he knew that he couldn't.  
  
She smiled at him understandingly, though the doctor doubted that she will ever understand this. He looked away as she started to look for something in her handbag.

The doctor swallowed. He had been happy with Sherlock... Their life had been exciting, filled with cases, chases and villains. True, Sherlock deceived him with his fall, but John couldn't stay mad at him. He was hurt, sure, but the young detective did everything to help him. To heal him.  
  
It included sex, even if it happened just once, when John came to Baker Street to tell Sherlock that he was going to move out and marry Ms. Morstan. Sherlock asked him that evening if there was anything Mary could provide that he couldn't.  


_You better kill me before I kill you_  
  
John looked him over and answered that he wanted a romantic relationship. Sherlock dared him to try. John stepped closer, taking in his black trousers, deliciously tight over his legs, the black jacket framing his shoulders perfectly...  
  
John tried. Only once. And it was haunting him even now, after he married Mary.  
  
The doctor looked at his girl again. She really was lovely. Charming and beautiful... and very caring. He would break her heart, if he said that he'd made a mistake.  
  
_Who'll pay the bill and keep on walking_

_Will get a hole in their back_

  
But he knew that he did something wrong. He didn't love her... well, maybe a little, just like a man can love a friend. They were friends, just that. All the passion he felt had always been directed to Sherlock, to his clever eyes, deft fingers... It was expressed in every moan John breathed that evening into the pale skin, it showed in every red mark his fingernails left on the perfect canvas.  
  
He would never have this with Mary... They were just friends. Two visitors in this universe, two people going through life. Not companions, just people...  
  
He knew what he had to do... it was just a question of time when they would break up. It was just so early...  He stretched his body on the sand, one hand under his head, the other plunging into his pocket. He felt something there... John frowned, he took it out. It was a small piece of paper, folded neatly in two. He opened it and gasped, his heart missing a beat and then beating double-time.

  
There, on a small piece of journal paper, written in Sherlock's messy handwriting, had been six words.  
  
'I love you. Please come back'  
  
John gasped and covered his eyes, feeling them welling up with tears. They had never told this to themselves. No declarations of love, of care... Sherlock once said that he couldn't possibly love anyone, and even if John knew that this statement was untrue, he never argued with him. John knew that he would have stayed with Sherlock, had the detective told him about his feelings.  
  
John exhaled loudly, trying to get his emotions in check, feeling Mary shifting beside him. She took the scrap from his numb fingers and read it silently. She looked at him, asking who was it from? John answered. She gave him the paper back, and started to search through her bag. Finally she found what she was looking for and handed it to John.  
  
John took it. It was a photo... no, a half of a photo, the other half torn off it. John knew this photography, paparazzi took it while they were on a case with Sherlock. This half was supposed to be Sherlock's, it showed John, standing next to a wall, smiling widely, looking as the happiest man on earth. John had the other half, buried deep into the box of souvenirs he kept under his bed.  


 

“How did you get this?” The doctor looked at Mary, disbelieving clear on his face. She looked away, expression neutral.  
“Sherlock gave me this on our wedding. He asked me to give it to you when the time comes. I didn't know when it would be... until now” she looked at him. “He said you'll understand.”  
“Yes...” John hesitated for a moment. He did. He would never be as happy as he had been with his mad friend. Not with Mary, not with anyone. “Yes, I know” he finished, not even bothering to clear it up for her. He looked at the see, untamed, wild... The color of Sherlock's eyes mixed with the fire-like tinge of sunset... the color of Sherlock's shirt. The shirt he ripped off the detective that memorable day.   
  
He needed to do something. He loved Mary, but there was no passion, no fire. It was nothing like loving Sherlock. John looked at her again, then at the torn photo he was still gripping in hand.  
  
And suddenly, he knew what he needed to do, what he needed in his life. He leaned into her, hugged her and whispered “I'm sorry” into her startled face. Mary stared at him. The understanding dawned at her when John stood up and shoved the photo into his pocket, looking at her with sad, misty eyes.  
“You know that it's the end, John” she said, more to herself, than to him. He nodded nevertheless. “And you know that you'll never be able to come back?” He nodded again, whispering his apologies again. Then he turned around and walked away. Out of the beach and out of her life. __  
  
When he was walking away he heard her saying sadly “He'll never give you what I could, John.”  
  
“I know” he whispered to the wind. “He'll give me something different. Something I need...”


End file.
